Not For Me
by Irene Moriarty xx
Summary: Alternate AU where Mycroft takes the bullet for Sherlock, instead of Mary during the final aquarium scene in 'The Six Thatchers'. Slight Sherlolly, depending on how you view it. Rated T for blood and death.
1. Gunshot

_London Aquarium. Come immediately. SH_

Sherlock's last text message continued to echo through John's head as he sat in the cab. Mary had already gone off but John had to drop Rosie at Molly's first.

"Here, please." John practically dropped his wallet trying to pull out the bills. He quickly stuffed them in the cabbie's hand and sprinted in.

The hallways were dark and gloomy, the rippling water casting an eerie shadow on the walls. John wasn't sure where to go, aside from the faint voices coming from farther up the hallway, the shark tanks. It wasn't much but it was a start.

When he reached the shark exhibit Mycroft, Sherlock, Mary and a gray-haired woman were still there.

"Maybe I can still surprise you." The woman said quietly. Out of nowhere, she pulled out a gun. Terror for his wife, his friend flooded through John, but he was frozen in shock.

 _Bang!_ The gunshot echoed throughout the chamber. The bullet seemed to slow down as it raced towards Sherlock. There was an look of genuine fear, etched across his normally unemotional face.

And suddenly, Mycroft was there, running straight into Sherlock and shoving him down towards the floor. "Sherlock, down!" He cried out, as they both fell over.

There was a moment of silence. Then, two police officers came rushing in and handcuffed the woman before taking her away. Yet John only had eyes for Mycroft, the man who had saved his best friend's life. But at the expense of what?

John and Mary ran over. There was a small puddle of blood forming on the floor.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock stared down at his brother, with a lost expression. He didn't know what to do. John crouched down and pulled back Mycroft's jacket. "Oh, Jesus..."

The bullet had passed through just underneath his collarbone. John didn't have the entire human anatomy memorized, but he had enough knowledge of it to know that a major blood vessel, most likely one of the jugular veins, had been hit.

"Press your scarf on the wound." John instructed, but both he and Sherlock knew that it was no use. Even if the an ambulance got here in time, the paramedics would have to navigate through the maze of tunnels in and out, and Barts was ten minutes away.

"Sherlock, I need to tell you something," whispered Mycroft, "About your sister."

"Sister?" Sherlock asked, looking up. He wasn't crying, but his face looked a bit odd.

"Call Sherrinford," Mycroft murmured, "There are things you need to know..." he coughed once and stopped.

"What things? What things do I need to know?" Sherlock pressed urgently, almost desperate. "Mycroft?"

"Redbeard." The last word was barely audible, but loud enough for all of them to catch it. Then his eyes closed for the last time as Mycroft Holmes died.

Sherlock stood up, clutching his blue scarf, still red with blood. "No. No, no." He shook his head, still in denial. "Mycroft, why? Why me?" And just like that, he slowly walked out of the enclosure.

"Sherlock?" John called, alarmed, "Where are you going?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He pulled his collar up tighter and started running.

"Wait, come back!" Mary shouted, but Sherlock was already out of earshot.


	2. Sunrise

Sherlock's mind raced as he exited the aquarium into the street, the sun just finished setting. It could've been a normal evening. But the next time the sun rose over the world, one person would be gone from it. Mycroft was dead. The two had never got along, but his final act had been saving his brother's life. Why? Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the storm of emotions that were threatening to take over him. It was all his fault, for getting Mycroft involved in the case. It should've been him.

Suddenly he looked up. He couldn't go back there, to John and Mary. He needed to talk with someone else. Someone who had always been there for him, even if he hadn't been there for her. He needed to see Molly.

ooOoo

"And the three little pigs lived happily ever after." Molly repeated, closing the book. "That's all for tonight, Rosie." Baby Rosie giggled as she reached for a new toy. Molly's phone started ringing.

"John?" She asked, picking it up. "What's up?"

"Mycroft's dead." John answered on the other end, sadness in his voice. "He was shot, trying to save Sherlock."

"What?" Molly gasped. "Well, where's Sherlock? Where's Mary? Are they okay?"

"I'm here," Mary replied, taking the phone. "We don't know where Sherlock is. He just walked out of there."

Molly thought. If she was Sherlock and had just lost someone dear to him, where would he go?

Then it hit her. "I know exactly where he went."

ooOoo

The darkness of the lab seemed to press in on him from all directions, the only light being the reflections of the glass cylinders and microscopes. He had given up on trying to find Molly, for she was obviously not here, so he settled for sitting down instead.

He was crouched underneath a table in the corner of the room, curled up with his coat over his face. Hours seemed to go by, he soon lost track of time. There were no tears yet, just the overwhelming sensation of grief, loss, and confusion. Sherlock debated escaping back into Victorian London, but resisted the urge. Mycroft had worked so hard to keep him clean, he wasn't about to lose all that. It was the least he could do.

His parents woud've been notified by now. That they had just lost a son, and their other one was AWOL. And what about his sister?

 _There was a girl_ , Sherlock realized with a start, but he didn't know—couldn't remember what she looked like. A pair of pink boots, a child singing...it was all very confusing. Redbeard was his dog, what did that have anything to do with a sister? And what was Sherrinford?

Just then, the door opened. Sherlock cringed, afraid it was one of the cleaning staff. He just wanted to hide here forever, left alone.

"Sherlock?" It wasn't a janitor. The voice belonged to Molly Hooper. "Are you in here? Can you hear me?"

"I'm here." Sherlock replied. He was surprised at how steady his voice was. "Under the table." He saw Molly's brown tennis shoes come closer. She crouched down, and Sherlock was grateful he could see her face.

"I'm so, so sorry, Sherlock." she said, sliding under the table with him and giving him a hug.

"Don't tell John where I went," he pleaded, "I can't go back to Baker Street...not yet."

Molly nodded. "I haven't yet." Sherlock seemed satisfied with that, for he was silent. They sat there for awhile, just staring out at the dark window, leaning onto each other. At some point they both fell asleep, Molly resting her head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock took his coat off and covered the both of them. He didn't mind, it was the least he could do for all she had done for him.

The next morning, Molly woke up, alone. Sherlock's coat was still over her and he had folded up a lab jacket as a pillow. Even though he was gone, a strange sense of calm had descended over Molly. He was Sherlock, after all, and if there was one thing that Molly knew about him it would be that he always had a plan. No doubt he was on his way to console his parents, or at least reunite with John.

There was a note taped to the underside of the table. Molly leaned forward, rubbing her eyes. It was very short, just a couple of choppy sentences: _Talked with John. Going to see parents now. Thank you. SH_

Molly smiled. Sherlock rarely thanked anyone. He must've been in a better mood. Stretching, she stood up and grabbed her purse, and walked out of the hospital into sunny London.

 **Author Note:**

 **Personally, the scene where Mary died was one of my least favorite ones. She was super badass and a brand-new mom, so it was super unlucky. Thankfully, one of the best parts about writing fan fiction is that you can really make anything that you want happen. Mary and Sherlock were both too good to die, so I decided to get a little more creative (Sorry Mycroft). Hope you liked it!**

 **-Irene xx**


	3. I'm Sorry

"I'm sorry, Mummy, Daddy."

The words fell hollowly from his lips _._

 _I'm sorry we argued._

 _I'm sorry I did this._

 _I'm sorry for this, for that._

 _I'm sorry._ What did those words mean, really? It was an expression of regret, pain, shame and sadness. But no words could truly express how Sherlock felt about his brother's death. In fact, which words could?

John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson stood by the door, a look of grief etched across their faces. Sherlock had asked them to come, because they were good with words. They could understand and convey how Sherlock felt. Why couldn't Sherlock do the same for himself?

"It wasn't your fault." Mrs. Holmes replied softly. Mr. Holmes looked like he was going to say something, but a choked sob rose in his throat and he closed his mouth.

 _It was my fault._ Sherlock thought. _Mycroft chose to save me and now he is dead because of it. How is it not my fault?_

Sherlock felt a peculiar sensation on his face. A tear, welling up in his iridescent blue eye and running down his sharp cheekbones. It was icy cold at first, then became unbearably hot, like fire.

The last time he had cried was two years ago, saying goodbye to John on the rooftop of Barts. But that was different. It had been for a noble cause, to ensure the safety of his only friends. Now, it was a tear of anger. Anger at the universe for taking his dear brother away from this world. Anger at Vivian Norbury for firing that goddammed bullet, but above all anger and shame at himself. For letting it happen. For being the reason his parents lost a son.

Of all the times to cry, why now? He had spent all of last night wishing for just one sniffle, one sob, one piece of evidence that he was still human. Yet only now, standing in front of his few friends and parents, when he was at his weakest, did the emotions finally begin to show.

Sherlock heard someone coming up to him. He wiped at his eyes furiously, willing them to stop watering but it didn't work. His eyes were blurry, and he couldn't even count the number of floor tiles he was standing on. A hand was placed on his shoulder. He cringed, for physical contact was almost alien to him, but quickly realized that it was Mary.

"Thank you." He whispered, swallowing hard.

Mary didn't say anything, but instead reached over to give him a hug. Then Mrs. Hudson was there, one hand resting on Sherlock's fluffy curls, the other holding his hand. John came over as well, but instead settled for making a cup of tea.

Sherlock let go of Mary and raised the cup, taking a cautious sip from the steaming brown liquid. He suddenly felt very sleepy.

 _Bless John,_ Sherlock thought drowsily, as his mother caught him from behind. _Did he honestly think I wouldn't notice him slipping some sleeping medicine in my tea?_ Sherlock felt himself being brought over to the sofa.

"He'll rest for a few hours." Sherlock dimly registered John telling his parents. "I don't know if he got any sleep last night."

"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Holmes replied.

The faces of everyone crowded around him. Everything was getting darker, but he could make out the heads of his parents, Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary.

 _This is my family_ , was his final thought before he drifted off to sleep.

 **Author Note:**

 **I originally wasn't going to add to this story anymore, but after I got several reviews telling me to keep up the good work and continue writing, I decided to extend it by a chapter. Thanks to all those people who enjoy reading my stuff!**

 **-Irene xx**


	4. Sea Lavender

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned his head up towards the funeral home. The entire place gave him a dark feeling, as if something bad was going to happen. Mycroft would've called it premonition, but Sherlock wasn't sure exactly how to name it. It couldn't be described in words, and that bothered him.

Swallowing hard, he pushed the door of the black car open and he stepped out into the broad daylight, Molly and Mrs. Hudson following him. John and Mary had elected to take their own car, as Rosie's car seat couldn't fit in their own vehicle, and his parents were coming straight from the train station using a cab.

"'Caring is not an advantage,'" Sherlock murmured to himself, as if the phrase could take away his grief. It did not. The doors were open, and his eyes fell on the coffin directly at the end of the room. A nauseating feeling rose up in him, and he quickly looked away. Mycroft was in there. Sherlock hadn't been this close in proximity to him since he had died, and the realization brought no consolation.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Molly came up behind him and put her hand on his arm.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm just a bit..." not sure what to say, he cleared his throat and shrugged.

"I understand," Molly replied, "when my dad died, I couldn't look at it either. On the day of the service, I actually ran away."

"You ran away?" Sherlock repeated, a mixture of shock and admiration in his voice.

"Yeah," she smiled softly as she recalled the events of that day, "I was standing right outside here with my mom, like you and I are now, and suddenly I decided I didn't want to be anywhere near his body, so I broke free and started running. My eight-year-old brain still hadn't figured out what I would do, so I just kept going until I ended up in some abandoned barn somewhere. They had to delay the service until they found me."

Sherlock considered this thoughtfully, "You were a pretty bold eight-year-old."

Molly chuckled, "Boldness is by far the kindest word for stupidity."

He faced her, shaking his head, "No, Molly, it wasn't stupid. Being in the same position you are now, I find it totally understandable."

"Thanks," she wiped her eyes, "are you ready to go in now?"

Sherlock looked once at the funeral home, and then back at Molly. "I guess I don't really have a choice." With that, he took her hand in his and they walked in together.

ooOoo

"Friends and family, we thank you for being with us and supporting us on this somber occasion," the clergy started. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His parents were seated to his right and John and Mary on his left, a squirming Rosie in her lap. On the other side were Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Anthea, and Lady Smallwood along with some of Mycroft's other colleagues occupied the row behind Sherlock. There were some other people too, Lestrade and Anderson had come, but Sherlock didn't recognize anyone else.

"Mycroft Holmes, born January 17, 1970, passed away May 7, two Wednesdays ago, from gun-related injuries."

" _Gun-related injuries"...you mean getting shot to save his arrogant brother's foolish arse..._

"He was born in Sussex, to parents Violet and Timothy Holmes, and grew up with his younger brother, Sherlock."

He felt the gaze of the people shift to him, and tilted his head down a little. The clergy continued on.

"Holmes attended Harrow boarding school in London, and went on to study at Oxford University. After graduation, he took a job in the British government, where he worked closely with the Prime Minister himself, and helped with the operations of MI6. Mycroft was a man dedicated to his family, and his country, and he will be missed by all."

There was a heavy silence, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. His brother's funeral, and the clergy, a man who didn't even know Mycroft, was delivering his eulogy?

"Sir?" Sherlock spoke up, everyone's eyes shifting towards him, "I was just wondering, if that's all, would you mind if I said a few words?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," the clergy took his papers and stepped off the podium, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah, me too," Sherlock muttered quietly, so only John could hear. He gave him a pointed look.

"Er, I mean, thank you," he said a little louder as he rose up from his chair. Sherlock walked over to the microphone, careful not to look at the coffin behind him.

"Mycroft Holmes," he started. The words fell with a sense of tight formality, which Mycroft would've approved of. It was too impersonal for him, however.

"My brother, Mycroft." _There. That's better._

"Mycroft had many admirable traits about him—diligence, responsibility, intellect—but none of those features even came close to his compassion. His compassion, and his ability to love."

"He once told me that caring was not an advantage. But he was wrong. Caring, more specifically, his caring for me, made all the difference in the world and if he had not taken care of me, constantly watched out for me, I don't know what I would've done. He has always had my back, ever since I was young. And although at times we have had a seemingly strained relationship, he's always done everything he could to keep me out of harm's way, whether it be dragging me out of whatever crack den I found myself in, or sending people to look after me on my cases, when he couldn't be there himself. For that, I am incredibly grateful and I know I will never stop owing him."

Sherlock paused. He knew he had to address the circumstances of his death, but it was still all too fresh and he wasn't sure if he could do it. He glanced over, not at John, but at Mary, and she gave him a small nod.

"Vivian Norbury," the name itself evoked a seething, fiery rage in him, a desperate yearning to punish the woman who had done this to all of them. To him. For a moment, the anger was too much and he clenched his fist under the table, but as soon as it had come on it was gone, and Sherlock regained his composure.

"A criminal in one of my cases. I cornered her in the London Aquarium, and I had asked Mycroft to come with a warrant of arrest. However, what I failed to foresee was that she was armed with a gun. Upon discovering this, I should've been cautious, but instead I recklessly taunted her, my own arrogance getting the best of me. When I realized I had pushed her too far, it was too late. My mind still processing what I'd done, I froze, prepared for death."

"But it didn't come. Instead, my brother did..."

 _...and I kneeled down and looked into his dying eyes, pressing my scarf against a wound that I knew would never heal, holding the hand of a man I knew would never see the light of day again...his blood is still plastered on that scarf, stained all over my hands..._

Sherlock swallowed hard, fighting to keep his voice steady. "He saved my life, and in doing so, he conferred a value onto my life, one that I do not deserve. It is a currency I do not know how to spend, but I promise to do my very best to honor his memory and make my big brother proud. Mycroft Holmes was a great man, but he was also better than that. He was a good one."

There were still so many things he wanted to say, but somehow the speech had exhausted him. One sweeping survey of the room showed that he had done a good job, and it relieved him to know that he had done something right rather than messing it up, for once. With a sigh, he stepped off the podium and sat back down, as a staff member stood up to discuss the post-service arrangements.

"Oh, Sheryl honey, that was beautiful." Violet sniffled, putting an arm around her son. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would've chided her for using his ridiculous childhood nickname, but nothing was normal anymore.

"Thanks, mum," he mumbled quietly, reaching over to take her hand. His father turned towards him, and Sherlock noticed that his eyes were wet too.

"It wasn't your fault, Sherlock," he insisted, "and we love you all the same." Sherlock nodded as the small crowd began moving towards the door. He stood up and his shoulder brushed against a bouquet of sea lavender mounted on the wall.

"He always loved these, we had a small patch at Musgrave," Sherlock remarked, plucking a small flower off and turning it over in his hand. The petals were so tiny, so insignificant, yet it comforted him somewhat to be able to hold onto a small piece of Mycroft. "They were his favorite flower."

 **Author Note:**

 **I'm really sorry about the long wait! Things got a bit busy, but I'm glad I was able to find the time to write this up. Several of you commented that you loved the story, and I thank everyone who gave me feedback.**

 **Personally, I think this chapter was really interesting to write, especially because of Sherlock's impromptu eulogy. I made up the birth and death dates, and I used Timothy Carlton's (the actor who played Sherlock's father) name for Mr. Holmes. The sea lavender flowers also symbolize remembrance, sympathy and success, and I thought that fitted with Mycroft's personality perfectly. Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!**

 **-Irene xx**


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